The Angry Czeck

Exactly one half of my grandparent’s basement contained all the necessary amenities of a well-appointed rumble room. A cigar-store Indian stood stoically in the corner. There was a small but charming wet bar against the wall. The ancient RCA color television set didn’t seem to have an off button. No one ever made a fire in the fireplace, but there was a nifty model of a steamboat perched on the mantle. None of the furniture was worthy of public display, but each misshapen piece was a perfect compliment to the basement’s dimly lit atmosphere – which, if analyzed, would be 74% cigarette smoke, 15% flatulence, 1% oxygen and the remainder a disturbing mystery.

The second half of the basement, concealed behind the paneled wall of the former half, was an unfinished gulag of plumbing, concrete floors, steel drains, water heaters, aluminum duct-work, cardboard boxes and (for some reason) a super-sad commode and shower stall. A seldom used bumper-pool table sat next to the washer and dryer which were positioned alongside an antiquated refrigerator whose chief function was to keep cases of Natural Lite nice and cold. Unless you (1) needed a refreshing beer, (2) were washing clothes, or (3) were desperate to evacuate your bowels, this section of the basement seemed to hold little appeal.

Were it not for the ping-pong table.

Constructed during a forgotten year from an unknown type of wood and painted gorilla-ass black, the basement ping-pong table was comprised of two enormous pieces. If you ran into it while drunkenly diving for a ball dropped just behind the green net, you’d likely knocked the table (and your hip bone) askew. Putting it back in place required some effort. It was the world’s heaviest ping-pong table not made of stone.

Because it was made of wood, balls bouncing off its ebony surface sounded different than balls bouncing off a regulation table: instead of tok tok tok it was more like poc poc poc. For added challenge, the florescent light hung low over the table, resulting in many aborted volleys. Additionally, a five inch iron pipe ran vertically from the floor to the ceiling behind the north end of the table. If you weren’t careful, you could shatter your hand against it while retrieving a hard serve. The pipe was known as The Third Man.

My brother and I learned how to play ping-pong on that table. Upon every visit to the grandparent’s, we’d venture down the narrow, carpeted steps that led to the basement and engage in hours of paddle-pounding action.* Though I never developed the Asian ability of supernatural spin, I became a fairly decent ping-pong player. My brother learned to fear my overhead smash. I routinely defeated my cousins despite their daily access to the table. I was the Prince of Ping and the Pontiff of Pong.

Over time, the ping-pong table became a default setting in my life. While the world transmogrified into something new with each passing year, the ping-pong table remained cocooned inside a timeless vacuum. The table’s surface may have sported new dents but it never warped. The legs remained sturdy. The Third Man was ever diligent in its mindless quest to break metacarpal bones. The table was like a friend who never aged, never ditched you in favor of a girlfriend, and was always game for a quick best-out-of-three.

When my Grandfather passed away, and then my Grandmother a few years later, the home where they had raised seven children was put up for sale. Inside were many things of sentimental value to me: the desktop pencil sharpener, the cigar store Indian, the wooden office chair, the old game of Risk, my uncle’s collection of model airplanes. But my only real concern was the ping-pong table. I had no place for it, but if I could acquire it I thought I could find some place for it. The ping-pong table may no longer live in the basement, but it could reside somewhere near, so that I could return to its familiarity whenever my life took an unpleasant turn.

Alas, the fate of the ping-pong table is a mystery to me. Cumbersome and unfoldable, I imagine that whoever was assigned to ready the house for sale simply busted up the table before carting the pieces up the stairs. An inglorious end.

* Shame on you.